Post-Infertile Musings on Motherhood

Tag: Infertility Guilt

In this climate, it can be extremely difficult to control what gets in. Into our newsfeeds and personal spaces. Into our thoughts, and onto our personal playlists. Add to that people’s insatiable need to “SHARE” all of their feelings and thoughts, as well as every Buzzfeed list or salacious headline they can think of, and it can be a 24 hour battle to keep from retreating into a dark closet and humming to oneself.

I wish people understood that everything THEY can handle, isn’t what others can.
What you can joke about, because you’ve already digested it, can be choking for others.

When the world is going crazy, I tend to retreat. I never had a word for it before, but it’s apparently been a part of my (attn: buzzword) “Self-Care” regimen to find ways to distract myself and soothe my discomfort by overdosing on comedy and reality competition shows. Also with wine. Lots of wine.

As a new mother, however, I’ve found that where I want to shut down, there’s a small person with no concept of these anxieties who will want to eat and play and be a brat regardless. He does not give me the luxury of checking out. He has repeatedly saved me from myself from the very moment I knew he was coming.

I want so much for him. I want him to be happy and strong, kindhearted and genuine. I want him to grow to become successful by his own standards, and care for others with a pure heart. I want him to have a wonderful life. And having gone through IVF to get him here, I feel an insurmountable responsibility to get that for him. To make him happy, and to feel that I have not done this beautiful soul a grand disservice by creating him.

So in this climate, there’s that stupid phrase again, where people are so riled up, and there’s terror at every turn, and the world seems to want us all scared to move two steps near or from one another, I struggle with motherhood. I struggle with my responsibility to continue to smile and mark his every milestone, while simultaneously being confused and scared and unsure. I wonder how my mother, and so many mothers before her faced the reality of the world they’ve brought children into, while also smiling and loving us.

When I look into my son’s eyes, I feel rocked to my core with all the weight that’s been assigned to him before he even knows it. Being black in America. Being a black MALE in America. Being a black male in an America where you have to explain why #BlackLivesMatter doesn’t mean other lives don’t. Being a black male in an America where you have to explain #BlackLivesMatter AND why Donald Trump is NOT presidential in any sense of the word. But I digress. I feel so very guilty for bringing him here. I want to scoop him into my arms and just return him to the safety of my heart. But I can’t. I have to teach him how to not only exist in this world, but to THRIVE in it. And I have no idea how to do it.

I’m working hard at self-care. I’m also working hard at “looking for the helpers” as Mister Rogers taught me to do. I’m working hard at finding HOPE and instilling it in others.

I’m working hard because it helps me look the babe in his face and not fall apart. Because I owe it to him, after moving Heaven and Earth it felt like to make him, to continue to build the world that he’s going to inherit. He deserves everything I can give to him. Everything I can find in the world for him.

And I guess I’ve said all that to say this,

Everybody ain’t able to jump headfirst into these volatile conversations right now, but that doesn’t mean we aren’t working our butts off. We’ve got a village to build and leaders to inspire.

And I still struggle with saying phrases like, “my son”, or “when I was pregnant” because I so often forget that it actually happened. For the past nine years, I’ve been consumed with the unfulfilled desire for parenthood, and fighting through the emotional and physical turmoil that accompanied it.

I am one of the 1in8 who battles infertility.

This time last year, after finally getting pregnant after in-vitro fertilization, I found myself deep in the throes of antepartum depression and anxiety. Never heard of that? Don’t worry, I hadn’t either until it overtook me. This form of depression, one that occurs during and not after pregnancy, is even lesser discussed than postpartum, which itself is only recently getting the real attention it deserves.

There are many reasons people struggle with APD, but for me, it was the extreme pressure I felt as a public figure in the infertility blogging world. I had a number of people who’d been on this journey with me and my family for so very long, and I just didn’t want to say or do anything to hurt those who were still in the fight. I was also extremely terrified that something was bound to go wrong.

Infertility treatment is chock full of buildups and letdowns. New things that are supposed to help, only turning out to hinder, or new doctors who have great words to get you into their offices, but then turn out to treat you like a number. Positive results followed by devastating blows. It’s exhausting, and infuriating, and terrifying.

I didn’t want to do or say ANYTHING that would ruin this moment that I’d worked so hard to achieve. So instead of reaching out, I retreated to a very quiet corner of my world and put my head down. Not even really announcing that we were pregnant until about the the 21st week.

Anywhoo, as I was in my own little corner in my own little chair (shameless Cinderella reference), I was also taking note of the many things that I did find a way to enjoy about becoming a mother. I was also slowly learning that coming from the infertility world, my thoughts on many things differed slightly from those who had achieved pregnancy and parenting unassisted. So I’m a mom in theory, but I’ve accepted that I’m not going to always feel like I fit in with “typical” moms, and that’s okay.

I’m working to carve out my own little branch of this motherhood thing, and I’m inviting you along as I figure it out.

Mom-like

Momlike: adj. Having the attributes of being a mother, while not adhering to, recognizing, or embracing the traditional motherhood tropes.
Tackling the highs and lows of becoming a new mama after infertility. Complete with a fair share of wth moments, elated instances, and postpartum revelations through the eyes of a post-infertile.